Losing Nicola (28 page)

The chorus sings some
a cappella
madrigals rather well, and follow this with a couple of Negro spirituals. Nobody seems to find any incongruity between the English accents and the plantation vocabulary. Finally the singers file off to much clapping. Helena Wilburton appears and bows to the audience, acknowledging applause. She is generously built, with piled-up auburn hair and a low-cut green gown. She stretches one arm towards the wings and he comes on, Sasha Elias, in a black velvet jacket and black tie. He nods at the singer, bows his head to us, seats himself at the grand piano. He plays a rippling introduction to a Schubert
liede
, and the soprano launches herself into song.

I sit with my hands folded in my lap. I breathe deeply, slowly, deliberately relaxing myself. Outwardly, I appear calm – or so I hope – but I am in turmoil. I can feel Orlando glancing at me from under his eyebrows. As Sasha plays, glancing up at the singer from time to time, I realize how familiar to me he is. I am not conscious of having observed him in such detail, yet the twist of hair at the nape of his neck, the swollen knuckle of his right ring-finger, the star-shaped imperfection in his eye are as known as my own face in the mirror.

His face is rounder, the worry lines smoothed out by the flesh beneath. If there is more grey in his hair, I can't see it. He bends over the keys, he straightens up to smile at the singer as she swoops and soars and emotes.

Erin nudges me. ‘I like the look of that,' she murmurs. At first I think she is talking about the rather fine wooden ceiling above our heads, carved and vaulted like a mediaeval hall, but she is in fact indicating Sasha.

‘Nice,' I agree. Afraid his gaze will eventually roam the audience, I sink lower into my seat.

The small local orchestra files onto the stage after an interval, and Sasha appears again. Again, they are unexpectedly good, given their amateur status, and he conducts them with a brio which I can see brings them to the peak of their performance.

‘Well, this is an extraordinary surprise!' He is smiling, his eyes crinkling so they are almost hidden in the folds of his face. He holds my hand in his. ‘Alice! I would have recognized you anywhere!'

Behind him, Orlando is watching us as he talks to Deirdre, one eyebrow raised.

‘You too, Mr Elias. Sasha,' I say. But is it true? He has filled out. His accent has all but disappeared. He is taller than I remember him, and more handsome. Though the lines of his face have changed, it is still an interesting face, with high cheekbones with hollows beneath them. He wears his curly hair fashionably long; he waves delicate thin fingers as he talks. He is not tranquil. He moves constantly. Beneath the impeccably cut dinner jacket he wears, it is easy to see that passions seethe.

What I find inexplicable is the fact that after so much wishing, I am at last here, my hands clasped in his, his eyes smiling into mine – and I feel nothing. Not a thing. I've wasted so much of my life on Sasha Elias, worn him round my shoulders like a cloak, and now he has fallen away from me, like wisps of fog in sunshine.

I can think of nothing to say to him. I no longer care that he didn't try to find me in Paris. Embarrassed, all I want to do is get away. Erin arrives at my side and hastily I introduce the two of them. It seems they have an acquaintance in common, a composer from San Francisco, and I am happy to escape and move over to Orlando, who turns in mid-sentence, takes my hand, and holds it tightly at his side.

‘Is that Julian Tavistock?' he says. I look over and find Julian staring at us both. His expression is, for some reason, apprehensive. In the harsh overhead light, he seems pale. Sweat shines greasily on his broad forehead.

‘Yes.'

‘He doesn't seem to be wearing well, does he?'

‘Not at all. He's only a couple of years older than you are, and he looks old enough to be your father.'

‘Something's obviously bothering him.'

‘Could be anything,' I say. ‘Perhaps he's embezzling the bank's funds. Perhaps his wife's having an affair. Perhaps he's afraid he might have cancer, or he can't get it up, or something.'

Julian is pushing his way towards us, his wife trailing behind him. ‘Hel
lo
, you two!' He shakes Orlando's hand. ‘Long time no see, old boy!'

I can tell Orlando debating what answer to give to this absurd remark. Finally he settles for, ‘Absolutely.'

‘Catch you on the telly from time to time, of course. You're looking good,' Julian says. ‘Life's obviously treating you well.'

‘What about you?'

‘Can't complain, can't complain!' Julian's joviality seems forced. As before, I find it hard to detect the good-looking adolescent of twenty years ago beneath Julian's flabby jowls. Between us lie so many things that, for our different reasons, we cannot give voice to. ‘Bit of a turn-up for the book, having old Elias back here, isn't it?'

‘It is indeed.'

‘Remember the fun we had that summer, when we decided he was a spy?'

‘Not really.' Orlando turns to me and raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you remember that, Alice?'

‘I wonder if he does,' I say.

‘I remember your sainted ma came round to our place and gave us the rounds of the kitchen,' says Julian. ‘I suppose we deserved it, little devils that we were.' He looks suddenly stricken. ‘That was the summer when . . . you know . . .'

‘Yes,' Orlando says smoothly. ‘I do know.'

Walking back afterwards in the warm dark, Erin is full of Sasha Elias. ‘I just can't believe how many mutual friends we have in London,' she says. ‘And you know what's a real coincidence?'

‘What?' I roll my eyes at Orlando.

‘He comes down to Shale sometimes, just stays at a hotel, walks for miles across the dunes, and now he's thinking of buying a place down here for weekends, just like me!'

‘Perhaps the two of you could buy one together,' suggests Orlando.

‘Share it,' I say.

‘Hold your horses,' Erin protests. ‘I only met the guy this evening, and you want us to shack up together?'

‘
Carpe diem
,' I say. ‘No time like the present.'

‘Changing the hugely fascinating conversation for a moment,' Orlando says, ‘Julian's remembrance of things past is rather different from mine.'

‘What's even funnier,' I say, ‘is his total inability to mention either Nicola's name or the fact that she was murdered.'

‘Julian,' says Erin. ‘Is that the bank manager guy?'

‘That's right.'

‘He was kinda good-looking back when we were kids, apart from the zits.'

‘But not any more.'

‘I always mistrust a man who loses his hair too early,' says Erin.

‘Why?'

‘They're usually hiding something.'

‘Displaying it, I'd have said,'

‘Of all the prejudiced remarks . . .' I add.

‘Whereas your friend Sasha,' says Erin, while Orlando groans, ‘he's got a really full head of hair, despite being almost twelve years older than I am.'

‘You got that far, did you?'

Erin snorts. ‘Come on, guys. Asking someone's age is hardly any distance at all.'

‘When are you seeing him again?' asks Orlando innocently.

‘Tuesday, we're going to— Just a minute, what makes you think we're meeting up again?'

‘I don't know. Do you, Alice? Could it be the pretty flush in her cheeks?'

‘Or the fact that she can't stop talking about him?'

‘Or the extra spring in her step?'

‘Or the song in her heart?'

‘What song?'

‘Some day my prince will come,' croons Orlando, in his beautiful voice.

‘What about your princess?' she retorts.

He ignores her, and the three of us harmonize happily as we walk home beside the sea.

As soon as we're inside the flat, Orlando sits down at the piano and begins to play Chopin nocturnes. Erin drags me into the kitchen.

‘Listen,' she says.

‘I am.'

‘Darling, honeybun Alice baby cakes, please, pretty please—'

‘What do you want?' I say suspiciously.

‘I suggested that Sasha might like to come to lunch tomorrow. He doesn't have to get back to London until the evening.'

‘Suggested?'

‘Okay, invited. I knew you wouldn't mind.'

‘I see.'

‘I'll do the cooking, I swear.'

‘No thanks. I'd rather do it myself.' I smile at her. ‘Good thing I've some stuff in the freezer.'

‘And there's the tart I brought, and some cheese leftover . . . we'll have a feast.'

Sasha arrives at twelve-thirty. His face lights up when he walks into the sitting room. ‘This is amazing!' he says. ‘Fantastic!' He looks at me, ‘I cannot believe that I am here again. And there is the same piano. May I?'

‘Oh
please
,' begs Erin.

I serve dry sherry before we sit down. There is something very pleasant about the four of us sharing this meal, especially now that my heart is no longer abraded by Sasha Elias. I try not to think of the time I have wasted on yearning for him. Or of the new abrasions which might be forthcoming.

‘How did you come to England?' Erin asks him. The sun shines through her thick hair and throws a dusky light on her beautiful American complexion. ‘If you don't mind talking about it, that is.'

‘It's a long time ago. And I have learned to live with what happened.' He looks round at us. ‘I wish also that I could forget, but I cannot. I imagine these ugly images will remain with me for the rest of my life, however long I shall live.'

Orlando and I exchange glances.

‘My cousin Dieter was sent to England in the late Thirties, by his mother, my Aunt Lena. She was a historian in the university and knew what the consequences of Hitler's rise would be. My father disagreed with her, but she told him he had his head in the sand, like an ostrich. She told him that an old Jew had been beaten to death right outside her house two days before and the local women had watched, had laughed, had held up their babies to see. “What kind of people are these?” she asked of my father, and he said, “They are our people, we are all Germans.”'

Erin gazes at him, her mouth partly open. ‘We knew so little of this, in California, where I grew up. What did your aunt say to that?'

‘She said, “I am a Jew before I am a German, and I know the hatred they have for us. So I am sending my Dieter away before it is too late.” My mother refused to send my sisters, but in the end she allowed me to join Dieter.'

‘How did you two cope? Two young refugees alone in a foreign country?'

‘There were organizations to help such as we were. As for the rest, I will tell you some day.' Sasha glowed at Erin, and the mark in his eye shone like an emerald.

‘What happened to your aunt?' Orlando asked.

‘She ended up in Dachau, and survived. But she will not talk of those days.' Sasha picks up Erin's left hand and turned it so we could see the thin tendons, the veins running up towards her elbow. ‘She has a tattoo right here,' he says. ‘Her number, put there by the Germans.'

‘How perfectly horrible!'

‘Every time I think of that, and the other things: the camps, the cattle wagons, the inhumanity, I am filled with a . . . a murderous rage.'

‘I don't blame you.'

‘But let us talk of other, better things.' He smiles at Orlando. ‘Last time we met you were going to America with your Musick Consort. Did that go well?'

‘Very well. We've just finished our time out there.'

‘And they were even invited to perform at the White House,' I say proudly.

‘This is excellent.'

Erin begins an animated conversation with Sasha about some musical function they had both attended, not knowing the other was there.

‘
Last time we met
. . .?' I frown at Orlando. ‘I thought you said you'd never come across him in London.'

‘I lied.'

‘Why? You knew I wanted to find him.'

‘Exactly.'

‘But—' I look at him narrowly.

‘Alice,' Erin interrupts. ‘We must talk about your new translation business.'

‘Which one would that be?'

‘The one you're going to start like next Monday. I've got all sorts of contacts through the Embassy.'

‘And I could find several, also,' adds Sasha.

‘So
go
for it, girl.'

It is not until towards the middle of the afternoon that the talk turns inevitably to Nicola.

‘Such a troubled girl,' Sasha says. ‘In the end, I told her mother I would not teach her any more.'

‘What did Louise say to that?'

‘I was surprised. She shrugged, shook her head, said she was sorry but she could understand.'

‘Nicola spread some pretty nasty rumours about you,' I said.

‘And that is exactly why I terminated the lessons with her.' His sombre expression lightened. ‘How is your mother, Alice?'

‘Fine. She and my father are still living at the Mill House, but talking about moving, because it's too big.'

‘She was a magnificent woman,' Sasha says. ‘When I lived here, in this house, Mrs Sheffield was always very considerate to me. But your mother . . . she made me feel as though I belonged. For a refugee, this is so important. She lent me German books, helped me with my English . . . so very kind.'

‘Unorthodox, but wonderful,' I say.

‘And how is Mrs Carlton?'

‘She died,' Orlando says.

‘We were all absolutely heartbroken.' I shift my cutlery about. The loss of Ava is still painful.

‘I remember that your mother invited me to your house, and Mrs Carlton was wearing the most beautiful pair of shoes, peep-toe, Italian leather, pre-war shoes, I imagine.'

‘I remember those.'